


The Kennedy Desk

by idoltina



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-29
Updated: 2009-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:00:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5486261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during season three, post “Cold Snap,” pre “An Invisible Thread.” Nathan examines the contents of the Kennedy Desk after Tracy’s apparent death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Original

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** blood, references to previous character “death”
> 
>  **Author’s Notes:** Written in 2009 as an exercise for a creative writing class. Contains both the original and the revised versions.

The Kennedy desk sat shorter than the Lincoln -- a deliberate choice. The mahogany wood gleamed, polished, while the tiny knob on the center drawer rusted. It was here that lie all of his best kept secrets.

In the small, curved crevices in the front of the drawer sat a pair of gold cufflinks -- the only mementos he had left from his once again late father. They remained untouched, tucked away in the bottom right corner, a pocket that he would scarcely look at or use.

Next to it, in the center pocket, sat a beaded rosary, navy blue. Its surfaces were worn and didn’t gleam or shine the way the cufflinks did. It was by far the shabbiest piece in the room but perhaps one of the more meaningful ones. It was the rosary he took up most often, rolling it and gliding it through his hands, each bead digging into his skin as he held it tightly, his head bowed and his eyes closed. It was the rosary in which he had set the most faith.

On the far left of the desk, a small, seemingly insignificant pocket, sat two more dull, shattered items, matching the rosary in their use. Both bullets, despite all efforts from his attending physicians, still had splotches of blood burned, almost engraved into the surface. There was no telling how often he picked them up, rolled them between his fingers, reminiscing. One thing was certain, however: the bullets lie cradled in this particular pocket to provide a direct segue way to his rosary, one set of memories leading logically, directly to another. His mortality made him humble, grateful, pious.

In the vast, flat canvas of the rest of the drawer sat an organized pile of papers and a photograph. At the top of the pile he had tossed his identification card -- his relative free pass -- but it was, just as his career, a mechanism for covering everything beneath it -- everything beneath his skin.

Under this, at the top of the pile, sat two sheets of thick, crisp paper, crème in color and bearing a bold and pretentious letterhead. The first bore a red stamp and an offer -- _please let me know if you need more funding_. The second, by all accounts, was now essentially useless. It was awarded this place of honor not out of apathy but out of necessity. At the bottom of the page there was a motion of brief contrast, and it was here that the ballpoint pen had crossed and twirled, bearing her signature. It was the only evidence that she had lived, the only reminder of her in the room. It sat in his desk, poised, because he had not been able to discard it.

Directly beneath this was a photograph, neither old nor new, unframed. It was an unusual choice to leave it bare, without support, but it, again, was done out of necessity. Frameless, this is why it sat in the drawer, away from prying eyes. It wasn’t different from any other photo that sat on his shelves or desk. The faces of his family quite literally littered the room, a blatant betrayal of any air of solitary heroism might have indicated. This photograph, as the others, was pristine, suited, pearled. They all sat and stood, far apart, poised, fully aware that this was intentional, a stage. They were the Kennedys. It was not a happy, blissful, candid moment. Those came far and few in between, in the dead of night in tree limbs and couches when no cameras were around, after they’d been fighting for hours. No one would ever see those, would instead only ever see what the Petrelli family wanted people to see.

Each shutter of the lens did not steal their souls; it didn’t dare.


	2. Revised

The Kennedy Desk: mahogany, shorter than the Lincoln. Two large, filing drawers below two smaller ones. One thin drawer, centered between the two smallest drawers, with a small, rusted brass knob.

Thin drawer: three small pockets at the front, expansive flat surface behind.

Left pocket: two bullets, fragments missing, splattered with dried blood. Center pocket: beaded rosary, wooden, navy blue. Varnish gone. Wood beginning to splinter. Traces of greasy fingerprints on beads. Right pocket: pair of gold cufflinks, initials _AP_ engraved. Polish still evident. No fingerprints.

Flat surface: pile of papers, one photograph, and laminated card. Photograph: three suited gentlemen, one woman in pearls. Unframed. Pile of papers, two of interest. Both made of thick paper, crème in color. Bold letterheads. First bears red stamp, reading “Seal of the President.” Contents read, “ _Please notify me if you need more funding. I am at your disposal_.” Second bears the signature _Tracy Strauss_ in curly, ballpoint blue. Letter begins with _Please accept this as my formal resignation._ and ends with _Remember the best of me._ Dated October 2008, followed by _–died March 2009_ , handwritten.

Card: photograph of a dark-haired, clean-shaven, suited gentleman, accompanied by text that reads _Nathan Petrelli, Junior Senator, NY_.


End file.
